


Then I Set Fire to Our Bed

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Because Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry for Arson), F/M, For Shits and Giggles, I Don't Imagine Arbitration Went Well, Post-Divorce, Pre-Reconciliation, Who Should Get Custody of the House Plants?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4885486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There really is no such thing as an amicable divorce. Sometimes you fight, sometimes you fuck, and sometimes one of you sets fire to the house you used to share while the other one is settling down with the latest Jo Nesbø.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then I Set Fire to Our Bed

“Are you out of your _fucking tree_?!”

In Anne’s defence, it’s been a hard two months. In her defence, she had a lot of wine in the bar with all the twenty somethings with topknots – she used to be a twenty something, but she never wore clothes that baggy, and nor did she have tattoos that look like they were drawn by children scrawled up her arms – and now she’s thirty-one. She’s thirty-one, and her black dress shows off her thrice-weekly-spin-class-toned legs, and in her defence, there really is no such thing as an amicable divorce.

That’s why her husband, wearing an ill-advised Les Miserables t-shirt, is standing in the middle of the pavement in his bare feet, bellowing at her.

In _his_ defence, the lighter in her hand isn’t helping matters.

“You can always come and stay with me,” she offers, which seems reasonable enough after four and a half glasses of merlot. “You can even pay your part of the mortgage with sexual favours if you like.”

“You _burnt down_ my _fucking house_!”

“Our fucking house.”

Athos has only had two and a half glasses of merlot, and he isn’t aware it was the same merlot his wife was drinking at a hugely inflated price two zones away. _He_ was ready for bed. _He_ had a glass of wine and a Scandinavian thriller at his elbow. _He_ didn’t expect the flaming bottle shoved inelegantly through the letterbox because, for all her failings, he didn’t think the onetime love of his life was a terrorist. He suspects he may be on the verge of having a stroke or committing a murder.

“This? This is _exactly_ why I’m divorcing you, you psychotic, homicidal –”

“You could’ve stayed inside,” she points out. “And died with _our_ fucking house, if you’re so attached to it. I never really liked the carpets, since we’re being honest with each other.”

“ _Anne_.” And if looks could kill, there’d be pieces of her splattered all over the street.

“Athos,” she says, fighting the urge to lean against a convenient lamppost. It could be the four and a half glasses of merlot, it could be his eleven o’clock shadow. She thinks she might want to lick him. She’s licked him before, she could lick him again. She’d like to step out of her heels, put her bare, aching feet on the cold street, and lick him. “If you truly and honestly didn’t love me anymore – _honestly_ and _truly_ – you wouldn’t be wearing my t-shirt.”

“For an arsonist…” He’s up to his eyeballs in her hair. They’ve both put on and taken off the t-shirt at least twice, but it smells more like her, of her night out perfume. “You may have a point.” The ‘mortage’ has been ‘paid’ for years to come, in fact, the bank is probably in debt to them at this point. Anne is full-length against him, on her side but facing away, naked and smug. Her lips are chapped. “But only about the carpets.”


End file.
